On the thirty-third day, the rain over Red Mist Valley turned to sleet.
The freezing slush hammered against the high rock lip of the gorge, washing down the dark rock cliffs in grey, gravelly torrents. Inside Old Cauldron Workshop, the cold was so sharp that breath condensed into thick white clouds the moment one stepped two paces from the burning hearth.
Old Monster Gui had not spoken since sunrise.
The old potion-maker lay upon his straw pallet, his body curled on its right side to take the weight off his stone-hard left lung. His pulse was down to forty-four beats per minute, thin as a silk thread, the sound of his breathing reduced to a faint, dry friction like paper sliding across slate.
At the second watch of the afternoon, Gui’s scarred left hand twitched.
His index finger tapped weakly against the rough wooden frame of the pallet, three times.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Pei Jing stepped to the bedside. He carried a small animal fat lamp burning clear fish oil, shading the flame with his palm to prevent the draft from guttering the wick.
